


someone who will love you (in all your damaged glory)

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Post LSH, Wish Fulfillment, bits from show canon/the tv show/ and my mind into this, just what i want to see happen which is them... TOGETHER, snippets from the entire series essentially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the aftermath of his arm being cut, Jaime did not remember much; pain had took away his words and mind, and he would ride, seeing only flashes of Brienne and the road before he went away.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	someone who will love you (in all your damaged glory)

In the aftermath of his arm being cut, Jaime did not remember much; pain had took away his words and mind, and he would ride, seeing only flashes of Brienne and the road before he went away. Instead, he remembered Cersei’s fingers gentle on his head, Tyrion’s laughter, flashes of sunlight filtering through trees, the song of fighting thrumming through his veins. It was not a constant thing— the sneering and jeering of the Companions would cut through, or the brief comfort of remembering him fighting would turn sour as he tried to flex his fingers and felt phantom pain.

Sometimes, it wasn’t so bad. The wench’s eyes would lock onto his, her steady blue a calm in the middle of the storm. When he had fainted, her gentle fingers took care of him; incongruously, he was reminded of Cersei at the first touch, and he laughed— who would find a relation to them— his laughter was cut short as the Companions kicked him off, the wench’s eyes closed, as if regret. Shame. He was kicked and mocked that night, pain lacing up his arm like a fine string. Days would pass, and yet it felt as if it had been one, long and painful and never to end. It was this thought that carried him that made him steal the sword, and he knew everything was wrong at once, his grip, his stance. The dance was all wrong, and his mind knew it, and could do nothing to stop it.

Still he tried; it was as if he was in a mummer’s play, his strikes slow and unable to even to hit, and the Companions’ laughter was the audience. Let them kill me, he thought, almost as if in prayer. Die he would, but with a sword in hand. The Companions had their fill of fun, and knocked the sword out of his hand, an easy task; they kicked him down, even easier. Hoat threatened him above, his breath reeking, Brienne watching, eyes wide, as if she knew what he had suffered.

-

The Companions did not have their fill of fun as they set camp, kicking him into shit once more before leaving him with the wench. The sky and stars shone, not for him, but for someone else, they weren’t for him— Brienne was whispering something, tones tense through the softness of her voice.

“What are you doing?” A demand; her hand was clenched against the meager piece of bread in her hand.

He looked at her, then his hand, lying limply against his chest. “Dying.”

“No,” she hissed. She looked like a warrior and maiden in one. “You need to live- live for revenge, fight them-” her eyes washed upon the camp surrounding them. 

“You need the help of a maimed man?” He laughed sharply; quietly, this time— he’d learned his lesson. He could hear his shuddering breaths, tense and weak. Her eyes narrowed in response. “Maimed you may be,” she conceded, “but a coward?”

His breaths stopped as he paused. He was pinned under her gaze again. She raised her hand, offering the last bit of bread, seeing something in his eyes. He grabbed the bread.

-

When Jaime awoke from the bath, his eyes latched onto the unfamiliar surroundings, Brienne standing in the room, eyes on him. When his eyes opened, however, she looked away. Improper wench, he thought; more thoughts sprang like a river, how much had he told her? She was dressed in a pink gown, evidently from someone from someone much smaller. It did her no favours— Qyburn was in the room, he realized, holding a potion. “Licorice and honey, to soothe the pain,” he said, moving the potion towards his mouth. As he was about to snap a retort, he could see Brienne tensing, her face stern. He swore she said his name, seeing what he was about to do; her eyes said, drink.

He drank.  
-

“Why did you come back?” Blood slowly leaked from her wounds; part of him had the urge to clean it and wipe it away before he stopped himself.

Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. “I dreamed of you.”

-

He gives her Oathkeeper, armor, gold; she comes to him wounded, nearly the left side of her face entirely bandaged. The world is not a song, what had he told her— and yet, what had he sent her to do? 

“Who did this to you,” he asks. Her eyes are cloudy, a sight he’d never seen before. Her frame is tense not with righteousness and honor, but with exhaustion. Oathkeeper is still on her hip. He is grateful for that.

She shakes her head minutely. “Dead,” she says, moving back to where she came from, to save Sansa. Something is wrong here, and Jaime doesn’t know what. Perhaps it’s simply the change in Brienne— even with the Companions, she wasn’t as morose. Still, he says nothing, and follows. Days pass, and he jammers along, saying useless things (as Brienne says). She smiles before she stops herself, but the cloud always comes back over. He worries, but they eventually find what’s troubling her, or rather, he does. Brienne’s face is stony as he stares at once was Lady Catelyn, shock splintering onto his features before he schools them back into a familiar mocking smile.

“My lady Catelyn, you haven’t changed a bit!” He calls, taking in her sunken skin, hair no longer a fiery red but instead gray as ash. Lady Stoneheart, as the reports said. Her left cheek shows only bone; her body is littered with gaps as this; her threadbare and ripped cloak does little to hide it. Brienne stands as firm as stone. “I brought him to you,” she says, her voice filled with that familiar conviction that she had somehow been lacking on their travels.

Lady Catelyn, if he can even call her that, only tilts her head, ignoring Jaime. “I told you to bring his head,” she says. Her voice itself is like salt rubbing on pavement, raspy, from somewhere else. A new thread of shock— it must be something deeper, the wench hadn’t lied to him before— shock is too small of a word. Jaime stares at Brienne for a moment, and she glances for a moment, before she turns back. The only time she’s the first to turn away. 

“Where are Hyle and Pod first?” Brienne says.

Stoneheart motions to some men in the dark— where had Jaime seen the boy— Tyrion’s squire, along with an utterly forgettable looking man, looking at him in absolute anger. Familiar. The boy just looks afraid, eyes darting between Brienne and Stoneheart.

“I told you to choose,” Stoneheart rasps. Her men move closer. “We’ll do it if you don’t.” Jaime swears Stoneheart’s eyes narrow, and yet Brienne does not turn to him. Stoneheart takes a step toward her, as if needing her answer. She had the chance to kill him before, why not now? My life, in your hands. 

“Please,” his wench pleads. Stoneheart ignores her, as she did to him. Her men creep closer, and Brienne looks at him, miserable, a message in her gaze; their easy camaraderie coming once again, in this backdrop of horror, and he understands. Her hand tightens against her sword in tandem with him, and she swings, fast and quick. Jaime cannot match her with this, no longer, her high swings with both quickness and strength, the Warrior herself. He fumbles as he glances at her in between his own swipes, moving towards Pod and Hyle. They’ve fended for themselves, keeping the man trying to move back standing firm. As Jaime fights him, Hyle somehow manages to grab his sword, and Jaime finishes him as best he can. The rest of Stoneheart’s men have run, and as he helps Pod and Hyle with their ties, Brienne stands above Lady Stoneheart’s corpse, wounds on her like the number of stars. Even from here, Jaime can see the big tears in her eyes, streaming down, before she falls to her knees. From sadness at first, then she falls over Stoneheart’s double killed corpse, holding onto her as if she’s her last vestige of honor.

-

Hyle, despite being the epitome of mediocrity, sneers and mocks him. Even his name is common. “She would’ve died for you,” he shouts, the unspoken ‘and she still may’ hanging in the air; the Quiet Isle is close, but is it close enough? Jaime feels some cavernous shame shake that’s already within him, but this man doesn’t need to know that. “Sword or noose,” he continues, “and she would’ve killed us, if not for Pod..” Hyle’s eyes turn away from him, and him and his horse trot away, as if he cannot look at him any longer. Jaime’s eyes look at Brienne, swaddled in the limited blankets they had. He feels many things; rage, for lying, worry, for lying and where she is now. Grief, that she still may die and that it would be his fault and that she would die for him— who would die for half a man like him? Still, something still shines under it all, something Jaime wants to ignore but he can’t look away— he swears her eyes flicker open and closed, and he shuffles his horse closer to the wagon.

“Brienne,” he murmurs.

Her eyes open again, and he takes a breath.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if any of this is ooc, im not super familiar w the books/tv show but these two have been stuck in my brain FOREVER and my brain just wanted to write this so. uh. *waves hands into the air*-- title's from raphael bob-waksberg and his new book coming out


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